Consequences of a Broken Vow
by Mashiara91
Summary: Post Series 3: Sherlock has always kept John out of the loop. But the price of some lies can't be repaid and deaths are irreversible. John Watson is done being kind with Sherlock Holmes. – Warning: Character Death, Mild Slash Sex, Series 3 Spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning: Spoilers for Series 3, Character Death (offstage), Slash Sex. **

**Disclaimer: I wish I owned Sherlock!**

**~Enjoy!**

* * *

**John:**

When you grab his coat collar, you're sure it's to punch him, strangle him, head butt him. Make him hurt. "Again?! How could–?" Always lying. Always keeping you out of the loop. "Why didn't you tell me, Sherlock?"

You can see his form shaking and you can't tell through the haze whether the movement is coming from you or from him.

"Why–?"

It's only when you register the way your voice cracks that you feel just how unsettled you are. It's been years since you've felt your frame crumble completely out of your control. You try desperately to reach back through your memories, claw at some vestige of military dignity and discipline. You fail. You fall.

Your knees hit the ground and you wish the pain of it was stronger, something worth focusing on, something to jolt you out of this sudden onslaught.

You should have just punched him and left. You shouldn't have started this, you know he has his reasons. You can't trump his reason. But most of all, you know that you should never have put yourself in this position in front of him.

You're crying.

How? When was the last time you cried? When he died. When you thought he was dead. That's the last time you cried. That thought alone makes it so much worse. And maybe he knows, maybe he can tell that that's what you're thinking. Wait, of course he can. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes!

He's Sherlock Holmes and he's got his long arms wrapped around you in an instant. The coat is warmer than you ever expected it to be. His scarf is soft against your cheek and it's wet though it hasn't rained today and…. Oh right, you're crying in the arms of Sherlock Holmes.

Losing someone was never this difficult. Not in the war, when your friends were blown to bits all around you. Not at Barts, when you'd hear the flat line that'd signify your complete and utter failure.

No. This was worse. Death happens every day at a hospital. Death happens every day in wars. But when you watched Mary walk down the aisle you never expected you'd have to watch her die slowly from a gunshot wound less than a year later. But the pain of Mary's betrayal had muted out that grief, held it at bay. In all fairness it wasn't even her betrayal that had stung worse.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

It's a dangerous train of thought you're on. Maybe, just maybe, if he'd told you… maybe you could have….

"She was my little girl, Sherlock. She was my baby. And now…"

It hurts too much, this pain. This feeling of having your lungs squeezed out of your chest, your heart bursting. You look up at him because you need to. You look up at him because you need him.

It's the tears in his eyes that get to you. Through all the pain and confusion, it's his tear-stung eyes that render it all still. For one glorious second, everything stops.

That's when you kiss him.

* * *

**Sherlock:**

Kissing him back is the easiest thing you've ever done.

Through it all you never let yourself believe it could get to this point. You imagined, you wished, you dreamed. But you could never really convince yourself that someone like him could ever look at someone like you.

Then he became your friend. In return you lied to him, faked your death and ruined his life. But of course, John forgave you. Because John was kind. Kinder than you ever deserved.

Then he became your best friend and you became his best man, and somewhere in between the word _love _snuck in through the back door, taking the stage with full force at what was supposed to be his wedding.

He became the man you loved, the man you were hopelessly in love with, the only human being ever to have your heart. In return, you lied to him again, hid the true allegiance of his wife and ultimately caused the death of his child at the hands of a criminal mastermind. A criminal mastermind you were supposed to be protecting the world from. A criminal mastermind you couldn't even protect one little girl from. John's daughter. John…

And here he is, kissing you. Kissing you because the kindest human being in the world is broken and it's all your fault. Kissing you because he needs this. Miraculously, he needs you.

More accurately, he needs to forget.

You know what this is as he tugs off your coat grabs at the buttons of your shirt. You know this isn't about you. But who cares?

This is the least you can do for him. You try to still the part of you that's rejoicing at his touch. You try to quite your beating heart every time his fingers caress your skin. You can't afford these feelings. Later, it will hurt.

But in the wake of John Watson, your reason never had a fighting chance.

There's a certain measure of cruelty in the way he drags you to your room and pushes you down. There's a brutality in the way he digs his nails into your skin and bites at the softness of your neck and the sensitive skin around your groin. Not even in your most depraved fantasies did you imagine him fucking you like this.

You imagined his infinite kindness. You imagined love. Even with a whip or two, you never imagined this sheer amount of violence. A violence in his spirit, every action filled with anger, even hate. At you, at God, who knows? Probably both.

There is no love for you to have here, and you'll take what you can get. A tear roles down your cheek and you clench your jaw tight to quell the pain. Your face crumbles only when you know he can't see, when his face is buried in the pillow next to yours as his body moves savagely above you.

John Watson is done being kind with you.

Just when you think your heart can't take any more of this – You deserve this, you tell yourself. You deserve more – he whispers in your ear.

"Sherlock," he whispers. There's a desperation to his voice. "Sherlock," he repeats with the same intonation, like a man who's been holding his breath for a very long time. Too long. The sound ripples across the surface of your skin and seeps right into the core of you.

His voice changes everything.

You reach for either side of his face and kiss him deep and hard. For the first time in your life you understand the meaning of true passion. It takes him a moment too long to react and suddenly you've got him on his back and you're kissing every inch of his face with childlike abandon.

"John," you whisper as you stare into his eyes. There are more words to go with that. Other words. Words that go unspoken, but leave him breathless all the same.

For the next couple of hours you make sure that he can't think a single coherent thought, let alone remember.

You collapse a while later. The lull of sleep reaches you through the thick scent of sex and sweat, over barely whispered nothings. You faint, pass out, fall against the blissful tides of sleep, sink into the warm place beside the love of your life.

In the morning, you wake up alone.

You leave the flat immediately. You only realize three blocks later that it's raining and you've forgotten your coat.

No matter, it's the perfect day for a walk in the rain.

* * *

_A/N:This is my first Sherlock Fanfic and I really love this fandom! Reviews would be great. If I get enough feedback I might even continue with this, even though it's intended as a oneshot. So please tell me what you think. Thank you so much for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

**John:**

You blink out the sleep from your eyes and smile vaguely at the warmth around you.

There's something quite distinctly strange about waking up next to Sherlock Holmes. Beneath Sherlock Holmes, to be more accurate. Even stranger waking up in his bedroom surrounded by his things. There were the impromptu drug busts of course and the times when the great detective couldn't be bothered to retrieve something himself and that one time with Adler. But this, you've never had this before.

For a moment, the shade of his ceiling is enough to captivate you. The bookshelf, the coat hanger, the little trinkets here and there, they're more than enough. Should it really come as such a surprise that you're actually allowed in here? Then again, you weren't, were you? You dragged him in here, pushed him down…

The tender warmth that had settled itself into your mind coils and springs against you. The pleasant heat that had seeped into your every pore now burns like a wick.

Your moment of staring at white ceilings breaks in an instant. You're not one to second-guess your actions. You're not one for regrets and changes of heart. So it's not exactly regret than you feel right now. It's panic. Sheer bloody panic.

Not only did you just have sex with Sherlock Holmes. You had sex with Sherlock Holmes the day both your wife and daughter died. Didn't even wait it out, just right then and there, how loyal of you! Really!

The pain and the grief churn loudly somewhere in your chest but they're in a different compartment now. And wasn't that the point? The panic overrides everything.

You haven't felt like this since your first kill in the army all those years ago. It's a moment of realization when you know you've made a moral decision that's going to leave its mark on the rest of your life. When you pulled that trigger, it wasn't just some idealized situation in your head. It was an action. A commitment to an idea. You've pulled the trigger for Sherlock too. That first day. Simplest thing you've ever had to do. But this is different. This is taking the gun and blowing Sherlock's brains out with it.

You're not sure what gets to you more. The fact that you slept with him or the fact that you're completely unsurprised by it. That beneath all your panic – it's the circumstances, the pain, and the confusion that you hate. You feel ashamed.

You can't hate him but you can't forgive him either. That thought alone sends your grief into a maddening spiral. You know you've hurt him too, but you can't regret what you've done. And here's the part that scares you, the part that sends your heart reeling: You wanted him to hurt and you knew exactly how to do it.

You could see the pain in his eyes when he saw you break, you could feel his shame and self-deprecation flare with each of your accusations. You saw him cry and you hope to God it was genuine or else none of this can ever make sense.

You loved him once. Of course you did. You still do and you can't ever lie to yourself about that. You still do and even though you wanted him to hurt, even through your anger and your grief… when he'd kissed your face and whispered your name, none of it mattered anymore.

Even now the thought bursts into your mind, crashing through the backdoor: That this is what it would have been like, this is the road you'd been traveling, if it hadn't been for all the lies, if it hadn't been for Mary, if it hadn't been for―

You almost push him off you, but you can't handle seeing his eyes open right now, you can't handle him awake and knowing.

So of course you leave. You just had to.

You occupy yourself with the kinds of tasks you'd have found daunting just under 24 hours ago. Paperwork, statements, more paperwork. You identify Mary's body in the morgue and it's somehow less horrible than you thought it would be. You refuse to go anywhere near your baby. Not now. Not yet.

You even pass by your marriage home. (Weird to think about it like that. 221B always seemed the more homely of the two, severed fingers and decaying eyeballs included.) You walk around like the place is going to dematerialize any second. Your eyes call back your wife's pleasant form on the sofa curled over a book. You can almost pick out the smell of early morning breakfast accompanied by the thrills of laughter and tender flirting. On some level you always knew you weren't cut out for this. Like it was all some fantasy you were desperate to claim. After his 'death' all you wanted was to be normal.

Sure, your wife turned out to be a psychopathic killer, but there was still hope: A softly budding hope in the form of a child's tender hand wrapped around your finger, her laughter clear and tinkling. You pause in front of the Nursery, your heart in your throat.

A nightmarish sequence blends into being before you: A little girl dressed in fluffy white frills and ribbons in her hair twirls round and round with her arms outstretched. She's laughing at her dress as it becomes a cone around her, watching the circle of white grow bigger and bigger. She's laughing even as the tips of her dress turn red and the darkness seeps further and further along the cotton until there's nothing left of the white at all. The little girl in the blood-stained dress points a finger at you through the haze, eyes wide and unblinking, "Why didn't you save me?"

You close the door with a loud bang and sink into the floor, knees buckling beneath you. You remember the way Sherlock held you yesterday and you madly wish he were here.

But she's accusing him as much as she's accusing you.

You really should get out of here before you lose whatever meager control you have on your wits. You can't stay here, not with the floating laughter and stained memories. You can't impose on Mike or Greg, who both have enough shit to deal with. You can't rely on Harry, who'd probably be all to glad for an excuse to join your miseries together at the bottom of a glass.

Besides, there's only one place in the entire world that still makes sense, disemboweled corpses and all. There's only one place that'll have you, one man that'll have you, faults and all. You shove a pile of ironed clothes into a suitcase along with some basic necessities and leave before you can look back. You just hope against hope that Sherlock isn't there to see you move back in.

He isn't.

You can't give yourself any room to think. So the moment you're done unpacking your stuff you begin to scrub and clean with the advertisement enthusiasm of a 50s housewife. But there's only so many times you can wipe down a headboard.

You've gone down to make some tea when you hear the front door open and close. His usual exuberant strides have morphed into quiet steps that echo lightly over the stairs. But you know that it's Sherlock Holmes, you just do.

You try not to look at him the moment he comes in, that'd be a bit much. For both of you. You can hear him hesitate at the entrance and there's something intensely satisfying about throwing the great detective for a loop. But that's until you turn around to look at him. Whatever smirk had been about to make its way to your lips falls instantly.

"What the hell happened, Sherlock?" You realize halfway through the statement that you hadn't thought to erase the concern from your voice. Now it's too late.

At the sound of your voice, Sherlock's whole frame seizes up. He whips his neck around to the sound of your voice, his wet hair sending water droplets flying across the apartment.

His eyes are staring at you with an unnatural whiteness. He blinks in quick succession, looking for all the world like the perfect embodiment of the phrase "deer in the headlights".

"What happened?"

After a moment he shakes his head slowly and opens his mouth to speak. Once, twice, and nothing. Finally, he just looks over at the couch to indicate a forgotten set of coat, scarf and gloves. You can't remember him ever forgetting them on a rainy day before and the sheer helplessness of his posture takes you by surprise.

Suddenly, you realize that for Sherlock Holmes, you are the headlights.

* * *

**Sherlock:**

How in the world does John Watson always manage to take you by surprise? Exactly how many rules is John Watson supposed to break before he breaks you too? You've only ever been rendered this speechless once before in your life. And again, it was John Watson.

"What the hell happened, Sherlock?"

The moment you heard his voice, it was like the pitch of it broke something in you. His concern. Confirmed again by the look of worry in his eyes as he takes in your appearance. There's a silent observer in the back of your mind that has enough coherence to remark on the wonderful conundrum you both pose: Which one of you is more surprised to see the other? Or more accurately: Which one of you is going to do the surprising next in this convoluted dark comedy you've set up for each other?

Right now it's you wearing the fool's hat. You just never thought he'd come back. Not so soon. Not now. And the larger part of you was going with, 'Maybe not ever'. You must be more the Virgin than you thought to get this disarmed by the man's mere presence.

He's asking you that question again and you find yourself uselessly grabbing for some kind of response.

The usual: It's an experiment.

A joke: The alligators in the sewers are allergic to coats.

The truth: I was out in the rain sulking because of how horrible I feel about what I did to you and yet how thankful I am for last night, no matter what it meant. Or what it didn't mean.

What you do manage in the end is some meager nod towards your discarded clothing. Bravo!

You look back at him and he's got this vaguely alarmed look to his eyes, filled with questions and a slight tint of anger.

But he's here and he doesn't look like he's going away.

You can't maintain eye contact.

You want to run away into your room but you can't. That place hurts the most. You think of curling up on the sofa but you're all still wet and he won't appreciate the unnecessary health complication associated with sleeping with your clothes soaked all the way through. Are you shivering? Of course you are. Are you scared out of your mind that he's just going to bolt any second now or is it the cold? Probably both.

You dart off towards the bathroom and shut yourself in, shedding most of your wet clothes along the way. The weight of them was beginning to feel like snakes against your skin. The shower is scalding hot to drown out any thought trying to creep up on you.

By the time you wrap yourself in a flimsy cotton robe and sneak back into the living room, John's nowhere to be seen. You quell whatever panic had been threatening to brew by taking a deep breath and listening for the sounds of his footsteps upstairs.

He's still here.

You try to curl up on the couch as you'd originally intended, if only to remain somehow closer to him in distance. But in the end you make your way back to your bed, desperate to remind yourself of what had happened last night. It was real.

The pain of it and the crushing anger. The way his fingers fisted into your curls pulling savagely to expose the length of your neck, making it available for the heated ministrations of his tongue and lips. The way his fingers clawed at your back and thighs as he slammed deeper and deeper inside you.

You can still smell him in the sheets and your brilliant memory has every little twitch of his muscles catalogued for further viewing. You thread you fingers into the pillow and breathe in the soft scent of your combined energy. In perfect high definition clarity, you remember the precise way in which he bit his lip, closed his eyes with a flutter of lashes, and whispered out your name.

"_Sherlock." _

The smile that touches your lips is the softest and purest you've felt since Redbeard.

For a while, this is enough. This infinite gratitude that swells and bursts within you. But then you wrap your fingers around the length of your shaft, focusing all of yesterday's passion into that single touch.

You come embarrassingly quickly, but then again, you are new to all this.

Through your silent reverie, you hear a voice that stops your mind in its tracks. It's John and he's having another nightmare. You've seen these symptoms before, but they were never this loud, unless he's purposely left the door open. He hasn't: The pitch more closely resembles one that would escape through an impediment, such as a closed door.

You've only rarely ever interfered with this sort of thing out of a sense of propriety and respect. Only when it was bad enough and you feared some sort of injury. In either case, you'd always play something lighthearted on the violin later in an effort to distract his subconscious mind.

But this is different. You feel a pull towards the stairs that's almost magnetic, the electric interference messing with the pulse of your heart.

As if that isn't enough, you hear a clear shout carried across the distance that stops your heart altogether, "Sherlock!"

You run!

You're at his bedside instantly, cupping his cheeks with your hands and soothing back his hair. But he's thrashing too strongly and the blankets are so thoroughly wrapped around his limbs that you're sure it's cut off circulation to at least one of his legs. You're shouting out his name but he can't hear you. You think of punching him but you expect he'd kill you if you do, and while this is a desperate situation, your death will hardly solve anything in the long run.

You have an idea and you hope to God it works or you're going to be pummeled within an inch of your life.

You climb onto the bed and straddle his hips to still his legs and you try to hold down his hands with your own.

"Don't M-Mary! Please, not–"

A sob breaks out of his chest and a thin line of tears streams down into the pillow, erasing the beaded sweat in its wake. Even though most of his body is incapacitated, his chest and shoulders are still shuddering violently, his head snapping from side to side.

"Sherlock!"

You do the only thing you can think of, because you're desperate and he's desperate and it just makes sense.

You kiss him.

* * *

_A/N: Due to popular demand: I've continued this! I hope you all like it. Please review with any comments or suggestions :) Reviews help me update faster ;) Thank you for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3

**John:**

Mary is standing at the brink of a large abyss pointing a smoking barrel right at you. She's wearing a black wedding dress that pulses, radiating an ashen haze and sending out ripples that distort the brick-red sky around you both. You look down and touch long fingers to a singular wet hole in your chest. These fingers are not your fingers and the pain that rips through you is not your own.

The image pulses once and suddenly you're holding a beautifully wrapped bundle of glowing white. For a long and beautiful while the image is still and perfect, accompanied by soft crystalline shapes and flakes of gold. But there's a viscous red seeping into the softness of the fabric and you think that it's surely the hole in your chest. As you move the bundle away in some vague attempt to distance it from the blood, it begins to cry.

All at once the light shatters like a physical crack in the world as the pitch of the wailing climbs higher and higher in agony and desperation. You unwrap a single fold and behold the bleeding face of your child. Your child – familiar and foreign all the same – brown head of curls, bright blue eyes, and a gaping wound that eats away half her face. The thought transfigures into a spectacle of miniscule creatures with bug-like eyes and savage teeth gnawing at her tender flesh.

You fall to your knees and the bundle shimmers out of your hands. Your own hands, bloodstained and empty. The pain in your chest, entirely different now, tears through you all the same. You look across to find the bundle in Mary's hands. She's wearing her white wedding dress, cradling the still child to her chest and cooing a soft lullaby as she bends forward to press her lips against the girl's forehead. Her hair glows as fiercely as her smile.

Just as your heart begins to swell in admiration, Mary's face begins to bleed out, melting like candlewax that drips and blisters against your daughter's skin. The whiteness of the wedding dress crumbles into a thousand tendrils that flow into the charred earth.

Finally, you scream for help the only way you know how, "Sherlock!"

Above the bleeding white, a shimmering outline appears above the abyss. With deep velvet wings, Sherlock's image breaks through the red mist. He hovers, still as stone, arms crossed over his chest in pharaonic splendor. His eyes are closed, his face glowing with inner light. The melting image before you flashes white and freezes into stillness. But just as the hanging angel opens his blue-grey eyes, pupils clear as day, your wife and daughter dissolve in a luminous wave of tender foam and clear ocean spray. The once blinding whiteness sinks into the earth, seeping slowly through every slit and crack.

There is nothing left now but the pure gaze of the angel, friend and savior. The wings unfurl wide and strong, unleashing a cold gust of wind that slaps at your face and tickles at the back of your neck. The inner wings shine bright and a singular feather floats humbly through the space between you. You reach out to touch the softness and marvel at the gilded tips. You run your thumb against the length of the feather and the angel smiles above you.

There is something amiss in this moment of silent reverie. A specter appears behind your angel. The darkness materializes and it's Mary with long metallic nails that wrap around Sherlock's neck like daggers. The nails pierce his porcelain-white skin and your angel cries out your name in desperation. She smiles wickedly with sharp black teeth. The smile morphs and the face morphs and for an instant you're looking at the face of James Moriarty, his nails digging into Sherlock's skin, teeth inches away from vulnerable flesh. The face of your wife reappears and you try desperately to reach out to her.

You can't move, your limbs are stuck, pinned down into the earth, a formless weight keeping you in place. Your fingers tremble and your hand seizes in desperation. You have to reach him – She has to listen – "Don't M-Mary! Please, not–"

But the face that greets you now is not the face of your wife nor is it the face of your enemy. A broken doll's face hangs limply besides Sherlock's own, its features all too familiar. Shattered ceramic-skin cracks audibly as she creeps forward. Half a dozen arms reach around your angel to rip and tear at his fear-stained feathers. He calls out desperately, but his voices reaches you muffled and strained. The clawed nails mutilate the wings with demonic fervor while your daughter's tar-smeared eyes trickle grime and liquid filth onto his porcelain skin.

His shredded feathers fall miserably to the ground beneath your feet, their strong spines broken, their gilded tips soiled black. You look up at his face, his eyes bloodshot and unblinking; he still manages to smile down at you. A single tear rolls red over his cheek and falls into a puddle beneath your feet.

"Sherlock!"

The world trembles, red clouds swirl and dissipate, hollow thunder cracks across your line of sight: A physical rift breaking apart your vision for a blinding instant. Out of the grainy red, the specter and your angel remerge. A clawed hand threads through his curls and digs into his scalp while another sinks its nails into his shoulder. It only takes a slight pressure and a loud screech of torn skin and broken bone ― Sherlock Holmes is dead.

Everything goes black.

You're cold and you can't move no matter how hard you try. You've failed. You keep failing. You feel a wetness at your eyes and a deep chasm in your chest. Yet… through all the misery and all the pain, a curious warmth blooms at the tip of your lips.

* * *

**Sherlock:**

John's muscles relax beneath you, but his breathing remains shaky and erratic. It's probably not the best move in the world to block out his airways with a kiss, but you really can't think of anything else. You loosen the grip on his shoulders and allow your knees to fall back unto the mattress between his legs, giving him freedom of movement should he wish to use it.

You hope he won't.

He doesn't. It's a blissful while before he comes to and you've still got your lips pressed lightly against his, so when he does open his eyes, you're much too close to notice.

What you do notice is the sharp intake of breath and the slight push against your chest. You let go of his lips and the rush of cold air against the tender flesh feels both sensual and unwelcome. His eyes are as wide as saucers as he stares up at you, blinking rapidly and trying to focus.

His hand presses hesitantly against your chest and for a blind moment you think he's found some telekinetic way to make your heart beat faster through the fabric. But it's not your heart at all, you realize suddenly. It's his hand. That's how hard he's trembling. He wasn't before but he is now and the longer you look into his wide eyes the more uncomfortable you feel.

You can't read them at all. Is he angry? Should you be expecting that punch now? Was it the kiss or the dream? You were probably making a shit-faced fool of yourself in the dream too. You're the one responsible for his nightmares, you're sure of it. He must have seen his daughter die, your fault, your―

His fingers thread into the fabric of your shirt with an impossible force. His jaw quivers and your mind flat-lines as you witness several tears spill over the sides of his face. Two impossibilities battle in your mind and the only consequence is a thunderous whirlwind of hot and cold. He's holding onto you while crying at the same time and the question of what to do about it becomes null and void the moment he lifts up his head to bury his face against your chest.

You brace the back of his neck with your hand and trace small circles into his hair. You find yourself whispering, "It's okay. It was just a dream. Everything's okay."

A sob escapes him that rattles through both your chests. His fingers slide upwards to cup either side of your face. He's gazing up at you with desperate eyes while his breathing remains unsteady, wheezing even. He touches his fingertips to your soft cheeks and runs them across your cheekbones. He traces the lines of your eyebrows and presses his palms against your forehead, going over the bridge of your nose with his thumb and resting the tip of his finger against your lips. Throughout, his hands move in fluid reverence as his eyes focus on yours for the first time in what feels like an eternity. An eternity for you both.

Finally, his breathing slows down to normal and you watch as he drops his head back against the pillow with a mixture of relief and fatigue. He closes his eyes and, after a brief moment, you move your limbs away from his and bring your feet down to the floor with a soft thud. Your heart feels like lead within your chest, fragments of it crunching through your bloodstream and grating against the floor as you stand to leave.

You turn and suddenly, a slight pressure holds you back: A tug at your shirt.

Eyes frantic, neck rigid, you take a peek over your shoulder. The look in his eyes almost sends you to your knees.

You want to weep at his feet until he forgives you. You want to take back every second you spent lying to him. You want to declare your undying love to the heavens and marry him before all the gods of creation. You want to sink into his arms and spend an eternity nestled against him. You want to take a hatchet to the pain you've caused him and break him free of this nightmare you've trapped him in. You want to laugh. You want to cry. You want to break apart and be reborn.

All that passes through your mind in answer to the unspoken request. Louder in your mind than it ever could have been when made of soft-pulsing air and flowing wind.

_Stay. _

You clench your fist to steady your hand before reaching around to release the hold of his fingers on your shirt. His face falls for a heartbreaking moment before you hold his hands like a giddy teenager and sink back unto the bed beside him. You watch him heave out a sigh of relief before closing his eyes, face turned towards you, a tender smile touching his lips.

You each mirror the other with identical weary limbs, still holding hands, reaching out for warmth and something more: Something that courses just beneath the surface of your skin.

You wait for the signs of deep sleep to overtake him: Deep and steady breathing with measurable intervals and no escalations, rapid eye movement followed by an unconscious stillness… and the way his face is soft and pure and, for a moment, yours to behold.

Inside you laugh, you cry, you break apart… and by sunrise, you are remade.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for reading :D That was my first try at writing something this surreal and nightmarish - so feedback on that would be great. Reviews are always appreciated, thanks again! **


	4. Chapter 4

**John:**

You don't thank him when you wake up. Your daily emotional outburst quota is spent for the day. You are exhausted. The monotony of having to get up and go about some ridiculous daily routine is daunting.

Suddenly, you just can't look at him in your bed. Too wrong. Or too right. It's the latter that scares you.

As always, he knows exactly what's going on in your head. He leaves before you've fully formed the thought and something stings badly in your chest as you hear the soft thuds of his footsteps run down the steps.

You spend the morning in your usual seat, staring out the window, seeing nothing, seeing everything.

You have been here before. This grief. This pattern. It knocks against the inside of your skull with a tune you've long since memorized. You are lost. The past and the present meld into one never-ending cacophony of shattered faces and dead-still eyes, screams and cries, all projected against the window glass, playing over and over again until all you want to do is claw out your eyes and run as fast as your legs can carry you.

But then he's there. Dressed in his usual best. Shielding you from the plastered images splattered against that unholy window. He has his violin in hand and for a moment, you fear some upbeat jingle. You expect he'll play something funny, something lighthearted perhaps, and the prospect has your heart lurching with agony. You cannot bare this ridicule, his music making light of your grief just as his words did long ago.

You're about to stand up in a fit when the melody begins. A couple of high notes followed by a somber dip. His long fingers dig into the strings and his wrist glides with soft and agile strokes. This isn't funny at all. The melody is soft and sure. Every note like a heartbeat and a sigh. You recognize a vague similarity to your wedding waltz and your breath catches in your throat. Was it always this sad?

You look at his face and try to get your answer there. Indeed, there is something taking hold of this man's muscles and twisting them at the edges. Your breathing slows and all the images dissolve save for the image of Sherlock playing the violin. Everything's clear between the notes. He's talking to you, singing to you, heck he's even dancing for you, shifting from laughter to tears and dipping into all the various emotions in between. Since when was he like this? Even in your fantasies, Sherlock's emotions are limited to triumphant, insane, brilliant, arrogant and sometimes entertaining.

Then again, it might all be another lie, another mask. You clench your fists into the fabric of the sofa and try desperately to dismiss the thought. You can't.

You close your eyes and listen only to the melody. No Sherlock, no window, nothing. How long you stay there is beyond you. How he manages to continue to play through it all is a question that only pops into your head much much later. After he stops playing and seamlessly puts on a classical recording you've never heard before, possibly his own. After he's somehow managed to order some food for the both of you. After he clears and sets the table. After he sits down and begins to eat his meal, something you've never seen him do without a fight. After he arranges your food on a plate with extra portions of your favorite vegetables.

Meanwhile, you sit across from him and watch.

The flat has never been this silent.

The weight of everything that's gone unspoken is heavier than anything 221B has ever witnessed.

Both of you barely finish your meals and he doesn't attempt to order anything else for the rest of the day. Instead, he returns to the violin.

The collection he plays is utterly perfect and you manage not to think of anything so long as he's playing. It's well into the night when your eyelids begin to droop and you find yourself desperately rebelling against the tides of sleep.

No, not again. You can't sleep. Not now, not ever. Not without–

You're a soldier― _Keep it together! _

You will yourself off the couch and move across the room, trying not to drag your feet. He doesn't turn to look at you shuffling about like an overgrown lummox, and you are grateful and … slightly disappointed.

You stop at the door. Do you say something? Good night? But that's not what you want… No, you can't ask for that.

Can you?

You've waited too long. He's looking at you.

He knows.

"I was just uhh…yeah…"

Your eyes barely have enough time to widen. His long fingers have wrapped around your wrist and he's pulling you up the stairs like an eager child. His face is blank. But there's an excitement and a tension to his steps, so completely opposite to how he sounded after you shunned him away this morning.

Always slow on the deductions, you're still analyzing his footsteps when he sets you down on the bed and falls to the floor between your thighs.

You could never have brought yourself to ask for this. So of course, he saved you the trouble. Saved you the shame. The color still rises to your cheeks as he unbuttons your pants. His long white fingers have you enthralled and it's only because you're staring at them so intensely that you notice the slight tremble. You can't possibly tell if it's fear or passion that's responsible, you're not Sherlock after all.

The question is rendered null and void as soon as he takes your length into his mouth. Hot and soft, urgent and gentle, he sucks and kisses. The heat of his throat is too much. The softness of his lips is too much. It's in the way his palms rest against your hips as his nails dig under your skin. It's the way his breathing is shallow, lungs filling up with labored breath as he sucks and swipes his tongue against your tip. It's in the way he frantically takes you all in…he hasn't done this before because you can see him shudder with the effort to control his gag reflex.

You hate that you've lived with this man so much that you can't even enjoy a fucking blow job without analyzing it.

And he's not looking at you.

You hate the desperate need you have to look into his eyes right now. You thread your fingers into his curls and pull savagely. Still, he does not look up. You think you understand. You think you don't and you're not even sure you want to.

You hate that it's only now that you've come to this point. Years of waiting and this has to happen now, three days after the death of your daughter–

"S-stop." Your voice is hoarser than you'd expected; lighter than you'd intended. "Stop– Sherlock!"

He sucks harshly and practically swallows you whole. The warmth of it takes your breath away; the desperation stuns your mind to stillness.

He doesn't want this to end.

"Sherlock…?"

He jerks at the sound of his name, your voice falling against his ears like the lash of a whip.

This has to end.

You grab his shoulders through the haze while you still can, before his heat can consume you, before this passion can burn you all the way through. For a moment your hands almost forget what they'd intended, resting against his boney shoulders that tremble slightly beneath your touch.

This has to end.

You push him off.

Painfully, desperately, you push him off.

Before you can even worry about your state of arousal, the look in his eyes flags you down instantly.

You never thought you'd ever see Sherlock Holmes weeping at your feet.

o o o

**A/N: Sorry everyone, Sherlock's up next later, and the boys finally talk! The chapter is mostly done, so I'l post it up as soon as I get 6 new reviews! Thanks for reading! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Sherlock:**

"What are you doing, Sherlock?"

The question reaches you like a thick echo through your blurred vision. You can't even bring yourself to regret crying in front of him. Something is broken and you're completely lost. The usual cacophony of deductions and observations is completely obliterated by his anger. You don't want this to end. Whatever it is, whatever has happened, you can't see this end. His anger is blinding and your mutual grief weighs down on you more than Sisyphus' boulder. How many times do you have to climb up that mountain only to be thrown down by love? How many times must your heart break in your chest and pierce through your lungs.

"What are you doing?" he repeats.

Questions. Answers. Direct questions require a responsive statement. Why are you on your knees weeping?

Something Ridiculous: There's something in my eye.

A Joke: Your face has me weeping with all its beauty (not sure that works. Too close. Reassess parameters of beauty.)

The Truth... no never

There is a word that snuck in through the cat flap, a little sneaky one-syllable word that's been flapping inside your chest, buzzing in your head, and now it's tapping at the back of your Teeth. _Tap tap. Tap tap. _

_What am I doing?_

Quick, throw it back. "What you want me to do."

Wrong choice. His eyes glaze with blind fury. "You think I want you to be my whore? What – you fail at being my friend. You fail at being my best friend. You fail at being my daughter's godfather. So now what? Whore's the only thing left on the menu?"

His eyes are hooks, tearing something from your chest.

"Answer me!"

He cannot hate you... Will he?

"I don't know what else to do," you mumble miserably.

"So you go for the usual round of Fucking with John Watson's Head?"

"No– No! I didn't mean to… this wasn't about that. Not this…." Never this. Memories flash through your mind in exquisitely crisp detail that takes your breath away.

"Oh, only lying to me about my wife and endangering my daughter, only that's about fucking with my head. But sleeping with me right after the murder, that's O-Kay?!"

"It's what you needed."

"Like you know what I need," he spits at you.

A part of you rebels: He kissed you. He initiated. _Tap tap, tap tap_. Don't say anything. Shut up and take it. But you've had too many bantering sessions with Mycroft for that to work. The trigger to respond with reason is hardwired.

You try not to hiss, "John, I accept your anger and I am tolerating your reasoning. But now is not the time to lie to ourselves!"

"Lying to ourselves…. You want to talk 'Lying to Ourselves' – Let's take this one out for a spin, shall we? How about me spending my wedding night thinking I'd made the worst decision of my life because of some fucking speech. How about me spending 2 years mourning a man who can't be bothered to tell me that my wife works for the evil-as-all-fuck Moriarty! And I actually trusted you Sherlock, all that shit about her saving your life, Why? Why would you say that to me?"

Your desperation is a deafening buzz in your ears that vibrates through every finger and every nerve at the back of your head. "I thought I was protecting you! Keeping her close where we can keep an eye on her. She did love you John, and she was pregnant with your child. What would you have had me do?"

"Tell me the Truth!" he shouts. "Let me make my own decision."

"No," you whisper.

"What?"

"No. If I'd given you the choice, and if you'd chosen this path with me, and this ended up happening anyway… then the blame would have been yours as well. But it's not. Her blood is on my hands John, and only mine. You are not guilty in this."

He sighs, "That doesn't make the pain go away Sherlock. Don't you understand?" his eyes are dim and desperate, palm outstretched and pleading. "Your analysis is as reasonable as always. Brilliantly thought-out. But if we'd faced this together, if you'd told me and trusted me, I'd have you. I'd have my best friend. Now what do I have? A whore?"

"I – I don't mind if you blame me. I want you to blame me."

You breathe like a dying man as he circles you and turns his back. "I don't blame you. Everyone told me what you are. I'm the idiot who had believe otherwise. I'm the idiot who trusted a psychopath – sorry one high-functioning sociopath and one psychopath."

You are still on your knees but you straighten up your neck regardless. A man ready for the axe.  
_Tap tap, tap tap,_ a raphsody in grey.

And here it is ladies and gentlemen: The moment you've all been waiting for, the moment of truth. Irene is bracing herself, eyes closed. Mycroft is rolling his eyes shaking his big round head. Even Moriarty is there laughing manically in the corner. The ghosts though are not in attendance, you have that much control over your wits at least.

Enough of this running away! Your mind palace is his anyway.

_Tap tap, tap tap._

"But I – John, I love you."

He whips his head around so fast you're afraid he's hurt himself. Eyes wide as the cogs turn. He's backtracking, backpedaling. Running so fast he's better at it than you. "Stop it," he says finally. "You don't know what the words mean."

"John."

"You don't have to pretend Sherlock, its okay. I'm not mad anymore. You're my friend, psychopath and all."

No more running.

"John. Look at me. I'm not a psychopath or a sociopath. I'm just me."

"Sherlock, you shot a man less than a year ago!"

Funny how assaults on the parameters of reasonable deduction always manage to piss you off.

"For you!" you retort. "I shot a man for you, and you shot a man for me, what's your point?"

"You used a woman to get into an office."

"Used her?" Ridiculous. "John, I never touched her! All I said was that I was a man who'd never opened up to anyone before – she just assumed I was talking about her."

"You mean you let her assume."

"What does it matter?! You were married, I did what I could to – move on!"

He's grasping. You know he is. He knows he is. Your heart flutters. He wants to believe you!  
But... "You lied to me."

Bitterness swells at the tip of your tongue and spoils the moment's sweetness. "So did she. So did Mary, but you had no problem forgiving her."

"Because of you!"

It breaks beneath you, this hold you have on reason. The truth leaves acid in your throat, seeping slowly into your heart. "No. You were running away from me. I know you were. You're just so desperate not to be with me. And I… I just wanted you to be happy."

Your high head and proud shoulders sink beneath the weight. Your nails dig into the carpet for some kind of hold.

You feel him in front of you before you see him. On his knees, his fingers barely touching your cheek, send lighting through your spine. "What do you mean I'm desperate not to be with you?"

"I hurt you," you croak out. "Painfully. I can never take back those two years. You just couldn't allow yourself to trust me again. And now I've hurt you even more."

Silence.

Finally, he takes a deep breath, "Right on all counts but one, detective. I couldn't allow myself to love you again."

Your heart is sunk and dissolving at the pit of your stomach. You can almost smell the acid. How many times must you curse Lazarus and the plan from hell? How stupid you were….

"John. I'm sorry. I can never ask for your forgiveness. But please, please know that I am sorry."

"I know. I am too."

You look at him for what seems like the first time.

His eyes are closed as he leans his head to the side of the bed. He looks old and weary and infinitely sad.

John. Your John. You want to reach out to him, hold him, feel him, but ̶

"Sherlock. I'm tired."

Yes of course, it's a lot to take in, you should leave, you're on it. You begin to stand - "No, Stay."

You almost fall to your knees again. Instead, you mirror his position, on the floor, right temple against the bed.

A single tear rolls down his cheek and you catch it with a finger.

He smiles.

Later, after you've both managed to drag your weight to bed, he whispers in your arms, "Say it again."

"I love you, John."

**ooo**

**A/N: We're almost done here, ladies and gentlemen! So let's raise the stakes ;) How about 12 reviews before the next update? Please tell me what you think of the dialog and characterization. Any comments are more than welcome! Thank you for reading and take care!**


	6. Chapter 6

**John:**

When you wake, there is an infinite sadness in the moments between one smile and the next, but somehow the smiles are more frequent.

You sleep in his arms every night since. The nightmares still chill your blood to the bone, but he's become more and more creative waking you up. Or maybe you're just more responsive to his touch. Most nights, all he needs to do is whisper, "I love you, John."

And the angel in your dreams blows away all the wicked specters. The blood flies off the baby's face and in her tender innocence she wraps pudgy fingers around your pinky. A little child plays with your angel's wings and her laughter makes him smile. Your daughter laughs up at you, a young and beautiful lady. Mary… you would have called her Mary if you'd had time.

Then there are the moments when you wake up and hear his whispered, "I love you," and you smile and burst inside. His face is inches from yours and suddenly the words aren't enough. You crash your lips together and press against him. He responds electrically, like a man gasping for breath. You each dig your nails into each other's skin, grasping with all of your strength and desperation.

He knows your doubts and he reassures you with soft nips and infinitely gentle kisses. You know he's afraid too, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt just how much power you have over this man. This isn't like that first night. Yes, your grief is still there (and you suspect it always will be). But your anger is gone. You're not angry at either of them, you just miss your little girl. You bury your face into his chest and inhale the sweet scent of him.

Your chest hurts with the effort to contain unspoken words.

As he runs his palm against the inside of your thigh and tongues at your earlobe, the pain in your chest swells.

You push him on his back and straddle his hips slightly. You know you're blushing because without the anger this is infinitely more intimate.

His long fingers wrap around both your members and the combined friction sends shockwaves throughout your system. Your brain crashes and your heart melts.

"Sherlock–"

You bite into his neck and grab his wrists, pulling them up and over his head. You suck at his collarbone and trail kisses along his jaw as you ease his thighs apart.

This isn't like that first time, but―

"It's okay," he interrupts, reading you thoughts.

"No, Sherlock. I can't hurt you."

"I said, It's Okay!" he punctuates each syllable with an upwards thrust. Within the second, his tongue is plunged deep in your mouth, rolling against your own. He wraps his lips around your tongue and sucks. It's the weirdest sexiest mouthfuck you've ever heard of.

He's still thrusting that soft ass of his against your aching member and your hold on reason is slipping.

"You're a crazy bastard, you know that?"

"And you love me for it." He barks hungrily. But then his body goes all rigid and he gets that look of his when he knows he's made a miscalculation and he's beating himself up over it.

You smile and touch your fingers to his lips. "I do love you for it," you smirk, "Now suck!"

His eyes almost tear up, but he shakes himself off and launches himself into the task at hand, literally, and in typical Sherlock fashion.

When you finally do ease into him, it feels like the one thing you've been waiting for. You intertwine your fingers together with his, holding them firmly above his head as you thrust in. You're determined to make up for the pain you must have caused him that first time, physical or otherwise. You hit his prostate with a doctor's precision. You relish in every pant and gasp that escapes his lips.

"I love you, Sherlock," you whisper in his ear. He comes right then and there. The sight of his lopsided grin has you coming moments later.

For the first time in a long time, you are blessed with peaceful sleep.

You know the drill though. No matter how long you spent away from 221B, you still know for a fact that the universe only allows you a maximum 6 days of respite before the criminal classes start acting up.

It's been a good 6 days. A pleasant routine of waking up together, lying around, eating actual food, drinking tea quietly while Sherlock tries not to stare at you… which you find wonderfully refreshing. You even rented a couple of American crime shows and enjoyed your first real laugh watching Sherlock cursing and waving at the TV. You went into hysterics when Sherlock nearly broke the screen and then suddenly you were both laughing. The moment was beautiful, with your side cramping from all the laughter and Sherlock's eyes watering, you thought: Everything will be okay.

Your moment of peace is broken, however, when Greg Lestrade practically breaks down the door. Another case. Fine whatever. Maybe you'll manage to giggle at crime scenes again.

But Greg isn't looking at Sherlock. He's looking at you.

He crosses the distance and places his hand on your shoulder, looking you squarely in the eyes. "John, you need to come with me."

He turns to leave, giving you some time. Your mind is completely blank and there's a sneaky dread drilling through your veins. You really can't take any more surprises.

Sherlock's hand rests suddenly at the small of your back. His eyes are calm and kinder than you've ever seen them.

He's here for you, this man, this genius, this mad man. He is here and it's going to take a while to get used to his newfound benevolence.

You lean into his touch and nod your head. He understands that you're okay. Before walking out the door, you realize how developed your non-verbal lines of communication have become. Like dogs in a pack, all it takes is a look. Considering the circumstances though, you're probably more like blundering pups.

Sure, Sherlock was always the mind reader. But he reads hearts now too and his mind isn't such a mystery anymore, not to you at least.

You ride in the police car because you really can't be bothered with strangers right now. Sherlock climbs in the backseat with you, leaving Greg alone at the front. It almost feels like when you were arrested drunk and completely out of it. How close you were to one another that night. How close it was…. Today is different obviously. Today will always be different.

When you get to the Yard, you try not to let all the stares bother you. But they do. Without a second thought, you find yourself reaching for Sherlock's hand. Our fingers brush lightly against his. Your first thought: Why isn't he wearing his gloves? It's only then that your mind catches up with your actions. You quickly alter your movement and reach for his elbow instead. But he knows…and he smiles.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson holding hands, now that would have had people staring. And possibly dog whistling.

"What is it, Lestrade? Surely official statements can wait!" Sherlock huffs as he takes a seat. You choose to stay on your feet.

Greg looks down at his fingers twiddling in in his lap. "It's not about that. It's… I really don't know how to say this."

"Oh come on! We haven't got all day." Sherlock's impatience bothers you, before you realize it's for your benefit.

"Greg," you say as calmly as possible. "Whatever it is, I don't think making us wait is doing any good."

"I know. I'm sorry. You've been through a lot. But I really don't know how to make heads or tails of–"

"Oh for God's sake!"

"Here, you read it." He places a manila folder in the center of the desk and neither you nor Sherlock move to take it. Sherlock looks at you. Obviously, this is important and obviously, it's for you. But it's Sherlock; he's curious and worried about you all at the same time.

You nod.

He opens the folder and within the minute, all the color drains out of his face.

You almost stop breathing.

Greg puts his hands in his pockets. "Molly found the discrepancy last night. She's repeated it twice since then. There's no mistake."

"Sherlock, what is it?"

He waits. He waits too long. You realize suddenly that there is a part of him that doesn't want to tell you. You feel the heat shoot right up to your head, but before the anger takes over, you realize that for him to want to do that now… This is bad.

"Sherlock, tell me."

He hands you the folder and you flinch. There's a clipping of your daughter's bloodied face right there in the top corner. Through gritted teeth, you manage a weak, "What am I looking for?"

"Her blood, John." You almost want to tear Sherlock's head off for his callousness – then you see it. Sandwiched between the swirly handwriting signifying her age and weight:

**Blood Type: O+**

Beneath the official report and on several sheets of sticky notes are charts upon charts of genotype trees and blood type charts, all scribbled and scratched – no wonder Molly redid the test so many times….

Your Blood type is AB- . You can't be the father of an O+ child.

She's not your child.

You crumble into the seat.

"She's not…." you manage to croak out as you bury your face in your hands. The grief boils in your stomach and simmers in your throat.

"John, wait!" Sherlock is at your knees, pulling your hands from your face. "John, think! Mary–?"

And then it clicks. The image of Mary's Nursing Card jogs your memory. Her blood type was also a negative.

Then that means…?

"This isn't your child. Not yours. Or Mary's."

**o.o.o**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Leave a Review and tell me what you think! Next Update will be up soon... if you want it ;)**


End file.
